


Errant Mind, Wanton Flesh

by Dragoncurl



Series: Life of the Outsider [2]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Aftercare, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Violence, Human Outsider (Dishonored), Light Sadism, M/M, Masochism, Post-Dishonored: Death of the Outsider, Reluctant Sadist, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Swordplay, and he also has a Mark and his own powers, some of which arent shown here, when you have magic healing juice you can make the sm part of bdsm a lot more extreme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 08:43:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19128544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragoncurl/pseuds/Dragoncurl
Summary: Originally written as the beginning of the sequel to Final Release, but I've since lost the spark to keep going. I still like what I did write, so I'm posting it anyway as some nice Smut.In which the Outsider is sneaky, then horny. Corvo goes along with it because he can't let this dumb smug teenager out if his sight for five fucking minutes, seriously.





	Errant Mind, Wanton Flesh

They say Dunwall never sleeps.

Even at night the streets are brimming with activity, but it's often activity most people would consider far from noteworthy. A swarm of rats skittering through the sewers, happening upon some unfortunate soul who got on the wrong side of an argument and is now little more than a feast for their sharp little teeth. Hagfish in the Wrenhaven, listening to the faint, distant echoes of whale song that sometimes carries all the way up into the questionably-fresh water they call home. Moths and other insects, flitting around the purple light of oil lamps sitting around a shrine, a secret that would ruin its owner should it be revealed. Street thugs of various gangs that loiter and wander around their territories, and the eternal stalemate with the Crown Guard.

And across the rooftops, a lone figure whose heart was bloodless stone only a short year ago leaps unseen.

The figure is young. Tall, but not the tallest, and slender, with pale skin and short black hair and equally dark clothes. Boots, pants, a thick coat on top of a white long-sleeved shirt. Sturdy fingerless gloves and a black scarf around the neck and lower half of the face complete the look of someone who wants to move both quickly and quietly.

Under the scarf, the former God of the Void can't help his grin. The wind is cold and bites at his skin as he runs, his hair is damp with sweat, his heart is racing, blood is rushing in his ears. He sprints up the incline of a roof, pushes off the highest point, and Flies weightless to the next one as his Mark flashes under the glove and his eyes turn black like pitch, dark wisps of smoke trailing after his shadow-wreathed form. He lands cat-like on the next roof and flows with the momentum easily into another bout of sprinting, vaulting over a ventilation unit, a low wall between two houses, a gap over an alley, until he can leap and Fly again.

It's like a city-wide game of hopscotch on his 19th birthday, arrived four thousand plus years late, and he's having the time of his  _ life _ .

He Flies one last time and lands into a crouch, noiselessly, at the edge of a high roof overlooking a squat, wide, long building near the outer edge of Dunwall proper. Beyond here buildings grow fewer and roads less maintained, until the city gives way to the partially-tamed countryside. The one he's poised over is an old warehouse, once used to store grain and other goods for transport and distribution into the city via railcar. It has long since been commandeered by the Abbey as a temporary stop in their efforts to gather and destroy any and all heretical artifacts across the isles.

His Mark prickles and his eyes go dark. The world is bleached into gray. The warehouse below lights up, both within and without, with silhouettes in some shade of light orange. There's an alarm outlined in black and white near the main entrance and an arc pylon inside, around which are concentrated most of the bright white sparks of whale bone he's here for. Probably the main storage room.

Seven pieces of humming bone, two runes, five charms. An equal number of Overseers, plus two wolfhounds. Two at the front, one in the back, one patrolling with a hound. One inside next to the lone piece of whale bone not protected by the arc pylon, either studying or trying to destroy it. Two more asleep in the west side of the building. The other hound is inside, also sleeping. He can see the thick bundle of wire feeding energy to the pylon and follows it to the east side of the building, where an oil tank sits inside a socket in the wall.

He flexes his Marked hand. Void sings in his ears as he carefully loads a stunning shot into the voltaic gun inside his sleeve. He leans forward until his weight tips over the edge, then simply Flies down and lands quieter than a breeze on the roof of the warehouse. He calls on his All Sight again while he considers his options. His eyes follow the guard with the wolfhound, patrolling a few feet out from the perimeter of the warehouse.

He creeps to the edge of the roof and waits for the guard with the hound to go by, then leaps and Flies, over the rails adjacent to the building and down to the other side of the street. He ducks into a narrower, darker passage, a little too open to be an alley but not wide enough to be a commonly-used street. He makes sure to linger at the entrance to the passage and to walk up and down its length at least once before Flying up to one of the roofs overlooking the path. He settles on the very edge where he has a view directly below him and fumbles with his coat, with the row of bonecharms strapped inside. He finds the one he wants, slips it into his fist, and waits.

As the guard with the hound comes into view around the front of the warehouse again, he drops the bonecharm into a groove in the roof tiles under him. The hound immediately picks up on his now unfamiliar scent at the mouth of the alley. It stops, sniffing the air intently.

"What's wrong, boy?"

The hound starts to lead its master into the darkened path. The guard puts a hand on the hilt of their sabre.

He snatches up the bonecharm again, pockets it, and readies himself. A quick check with All Sight confirms that both hound and guard will pass right under him, little glowing spots marking their future steps, so he teeters on the edge of the roof, voltaic gun at the ready. The guard keeps walking.

Just as his weight tips over the edge he lets loose the stunning shot. The hound yelps and goes down twitching, and not a second later the guard hits the ground with his feet on their back and the muffled impact of their mask against the pavement.

Two down, seven to go.

He sprints and Flies and almost messes up the landing on the warehouse out of sheer excitement. He has to act quick, the others will notice the hound guard's absence. He hurries to the back of the building along the roof and finds himself staring down at the lone guard by the door. They're too close to the wall, partially protected by the lip of the roof, he won't be able to drop down on them.

He pulls out his dagger and clenches his fist, feeling the Mark shine inside his glove. A quick Spike in the guard's mind makes them lurch forward with a groan, clutching at the sudden ache in their skull. He waits just two seconds and drops down next to them. In the time it takes for him to recharge he slashes at the strap holding the guard's mask and, when they turn in a daze, struggling to focus, he plants his palm on their face, feels their skin with his fingers, and the Mark flashes.

There's a noise in the Overseer's throat before they crumble to the floor under the Fainting Spell.

Six to go.

A dull ache settles between his temples, as it always does whenever he fully depletes his energy reserves, but it begins to fade quickly. While he recharges, he peeks through the keyhole of the back door and sees the arc pylon inside, surrounded by cabinets and shelves along the walls. The room beyond is full of humming, he can hear it through the door. The runes and bonecharms aren't visible, but he sees other things, a cache of bullets, a few spare sabres, a grindstone for sharpening the blades and so on.

A feeling like a breath of fresh air ripples through him. He's ready to go.

The guard he just took out has a key and the door is locked, but he doesn't need it. He clenches his fist and the Mark prickles, and then he feels the most peculiar sensation of his body Dissolving. He becomes smoke, thick and black and heavy as it pools on the ground before quickly slipping under the door and across the room beyond. The pylon sparks ominously but doesn't fire. He slips out an open doorway into a corridor, past a door on the right, another on the left, and under a third that leads into the room with the sleeping Overseers.

There are four beds, and two sleeping bodies. He reforms next to the door, waits a moment, then activates All Sight. There's a guard standing outside the front doors and another pacing the room just inside them, alternating periodically between the windows while watching the street. He waits for his Sight to show the Overseer moving away and slips out of the room. He quickly sneaks up on the guard and traps him in a Tyvian chokehold until the man goes limp.

He waits by the window until the guard outside looks around. "Where is Brother Thomas? He should've come back around by now," the Overseer wonders aloud. When there's no response they look behind them at the door. "Brother Darryl?"

He watches the guard through All Sight, until he sees the globules of light indicating their intention to walk inside and springs into action. He vaults through the window just as the guard opens the door, darts behind them and catches them in a chokehold as well, struggling to shove them through the door while also forcing them onto the ground until they stop moving.

Four left, only one awake.

He makes his way back to one of the doors he passed earlier and peeks through the keyhole. The lone Overseer inside is turned away, facing a table covered in tools. He can hear the hum of the bonecharm they have with them. They're muttering something but he can't make out what, it's too muffled through the door, but the guard doesn't seem to be moving any time soon so he slips into the room behind them and, carefully, creeps closer.

"...-ore it becomes fractious and divided. Restrict the Wandering Gaze that looks hither and yonder for some flashing thing. Restrict the Lying Tongue that is like a spark in a man's mouth. Restrict the Restless Hands, which quickly become the workmates of the Outsider. Restrict Roving Feet that..."

He smiles behind the scarf at hearing his old title spoken in such a fervent whisper.

The Overseer is chanting to themself, quietly, seemingly endlessly, and when he dares to peek around he finds the bonecharm clutched in their shaking hands. Even under All Sight their silhouette flickers between hostile light orange and neutral green, and sometimes it even dips closer to an almost tealish shade.

It's almost flattering, seeing an Overseer so deeply conflicted, if it weren't so pathetic. He pulls his dagger out again.

The guard freezes at the feel of a sharp blade against their back and a voice behind them.

"Greetings, Overseer. I sense some  _ errant _  thoughts in you."

There's a gasp full of fear and disbelief. The guard's own voice is so low he can barely hear it. " _ Outsider? _ "

He grins. "Take off your mask, Overseer."

The man obeys with shaking fingers.

He flexes his fingers and lets the Void gather in his hand, lets his eyes turn black and stay black. He puts the dagger away and pulls the scarf down. "Turn around."

The guard does so and immediately backs up against the table. They're still clutching the bonecharm in their hand when it braces against the wood.

He steps close and plucks the piece of whale bone out of their grip. He looks at it as though inspecting it, still holding onto the charge in his hand. It's a carving he already knows, he's crafted his own bonecharms with this particular effect. He slips it into the guard's pocket as he raises his left hand toward their face.

"Sleep, Overseer."

He touches a single finger to their forehead and his Mark flares. The guard hits the ground a moment later with the Fainting Spell.

He winces against the ache in his head, but there's little to worry about now. It's just a matter of putting another stunning shot into the other hound to make sure it doesn't wake, and then tossing a bottle of chloroform into the room with the sleeping Overseers to keep them asleep, and then he's free to move around undisturbed. He finds the whale oil tank in its receptacle and lays a hand on the glass. It's warm. He can feel the latent energy beyond it.

" **Si̴̡n̢g̢͜.҉** "

He whispers in a language he alone is alive to understand. The tank begins to hum and vibrate slightly as the oil Echoes into itself, its dull glow becoming brighter, moving like shifting water. He hears the arc pylon in the other room begin to spark and crackle louder and louder as the tank hums ever more intensely, until there's a noise like a pop, an electrical discharge, something shattering, and the waning thrum of the pylon powering down, overloaded and damaged beyond repair.

He pulls his hand away and the oil tank becomes inert once more.

There's only the quietest little ' _ thwip _ ' behind him, he only detects it because he was expecting it, and when he turns he finds himself no longer alone-- not that he ever truly was.

"Vaarûn," Corvo greets him with a nod.

He returns it with a smile. "My dearest Corvo."

"You were expecting me?"

The former God steps close and wraps his arms over the Spymaster's shoulders. "Of course. You never leave things just lying around. You knew I'd find that report pointing me here, just as I knew you'd follow me once I did to see how I handled myself." He tilts his head. "Well?"

Corvo smiles. His hands settle on Vaarûn's waist. "The trick with the bonecharm outside was clever. No alarms. My only complaint is that you shouldn't have showed your face to that Overseer, but you pulled it off flawlessly otherwise."

He grins. "Thank you." He leans in for a kiss and Corvo doesn't complain, but it's brief and he pulls back. "And there's a reason why I showed myself. Would you help me with this?"

He gestures to the whale oil tank. Corvo hefts it out of its wall socket and onto his shoulder, and the former God leads him to the now broken arc pylon and has him set it down by the foot of the contraption. After a quick search for some tools he sets about working on the tank, finding all the little hidden places where the joints are and working them loose, until he can pry the top off and leave the thick oil inside exposed.

"Would you bring that Overseer here as well, please?"

The Spymaster obeys silently. The conflicted guard is soon deposited on the ground by his feet.

He dips two fingers into the oil and starts writing on the floor with it, making sure to take a few passes to make the letters nice and bright. He dips the guard's hands in the oil as well and smears it across their palms and sleeves and puts a few dribbles on their chest. He takes their mask and throws it across the room, it hits the wall with a loud crash and clatters onto a shelf. He gathers the whale bone in the room, lets each rune shine and hum under his touch and be absorbed into his skin, but he arranges the charms around the foot of the dead pylon and smears some more oil on its struts.

By the time he's done the unconscious Overseer is lying on the ground, covered in incriminating smears of whale oil, next to what looks like a poor attempt to convert the pylon into a shrine. 'THE OUTSIDERS WALKS AMONG US' is written in oil on the floor in a messy scrawl between the guard and the pylon.

"I believe we're done here," Vaarûn announces after knocking the open tank over to form a growing puddle of dull-glowing blue.

Corvo seems caught between amusement and admonishment, so elects not to comment. He does go to the back door and kick it open despite the lock, no doubt to make everything seem more believable, and the two of them walk back out under the stars.

"I'll race you back to the Tower, old man," he offers with a grin.

The Spymaster chuckles. "Really?"

"Of course. You kept pace with me before, no?" He trails a hand along Corvo's jaw.  "Let's see if you can surpass me, my dear."

And then he's Flying up, backward, spinning in the air to land on the nearest roof, tuck into a roll, and take off at full speed again back in his pseudo game of supernatural hopscotch along the rooftops, only this time he sees Corvo Blinking to catch up to him and laughs.

Oh, this is the most  _ wonderful _  birthday present he's ever gotten.

~~~~~~~~

Vaarûn Flies through a high window into the training courtyard of the Tower, but just before he hits the ground Corvo Blinks ahead of him. He lands with a huff, but he's smiling.

"I win."

Corvo just looks at him in amusement.

" _ Yes _ , I did. I made it inside first."

The Spymaster chuckles. "Sure."

Vaarûn narrows his eyes. He's still smiling. "Are you  _ disagreeing _  with me, my dearest?"

"Usually in a race, it's the first one to touch the finish line who wins."

He makes a show of eyeing Corvo up and down, as though appraising him. The courtyard is dark around them, only a little bit of diffuse light to illuminate the space, both natural and artificial, seeping in through windows and other little gaps in the exterior. They are alone and unlikely to be disturbed at this late hour.

"Well, then I suppose we must settle this matter in a different way."

Vaarûn lifts his arm and flicks his hand up, pointing toward the far wall. His Mark flashes and his eyes go black, briefly. One of the training swords jumps off its rack on the wall and comes spinning, flying through the air toward him, only to land perfectly with the hilt in his hand, guided by his Telekinesis.

He turns the momentum of the sword into a fanciful twirl and points it at the Spymaster's heart. "Ready your blade, Corvo Attano."

The man just looks at the former God. There's something like amusement in his eyes.

After a moment he pulls his coat back and slips his weapon out of its holster and unfolds it with ease, a motion that has become second-nature to him after more than a decade. Corvo extends his arm and the tip of his blade clicks against Vaarûn's own, steel on steel. Corvo, with his old but trusty folding knife that he got so many years ago, when Jessamine's corpse was still fresh and Emily naught but a young, impressionable child. Vaarûn with the training blade, a plain length of serviceable metal with a mostly blunt edge.

"No Fainting Spells," Corvo says. "Or turning me into stone," he adds after a moment's thought.

Vaarûn nods. "Agreed. What would be the fun in that?"

Corvo had a panic attack the first and only time he let Vaarûn test that particular power on him. They haven't done it again since, and he doesn't intend to break that now.

They both withdraw their weapons and assume their stances. Vaarûn simply has one foot slightly behind the other, blade almost loose at his side, parallel to his leg. Corvo is lower, hunched forward slightly, both knees and his sword arm bent to bring the blade closer to his core, other hand clenched around gathering Void energy. The Resonance between them has only grown over the past year, Vaarûn can  _ feel _  it when Corvo is holding a charged power.

The tension in the air is palpable.

Vaarûn waits.

Corvo's grip on his foldable sword shifts slightly.

The energy gathered in his hand dissipates.

Then he lunges.

Vaarûn deflects the blow deftly and dances out of the way. His weapon goes up then comes down slicing, but Corvo parries and tries to lock their blades together and Vaarûn avoids it by Dissolving and darting under Corvo's legs. Formless black smoke catches around Corvo's ankles as it goes by and sends him crashing to the ground but he recovers quickly, landing on his hands and twisting around in time to see Vaarûn reform, sword poised and already diving into a stab that Corvo Blinks to avoid. He lands behind Vaarûn and they both spin around and their swords clash, echoing in the empty courtyard. Vaarûn tries to turn the motion into a disarming twist but has to cancel the maneuver and Fly backward when Corvo pushes forward to try to grab him. He Flies, but Corvo Blinks and suddenly he's literally on top of him and the momentum of the flight turns downward and Vaarûn is forced to Dissolve yet again, lest he take the full brunt of Corvo's weight on his chest. Corvo lands in black smoke that quickly darts away and reforms at a safe distance.

There's a lull. They start to move closer, slowly, but also to the side, two predators circling each other with their teeth bared.

Vaarûn's heart is already racing. His breaths are deeper, his blood is singing in his ears. He takes the momentary pause to catch his blade between his teeth and shed his coat, tossing it carelessly toward the nearest wall. Corvo does the same after a moment. They continue to circle toward each other in a slowly-tightening spiral.

"You'll have to do better than that if you want to pin me down, Corvo!" he calls across the no man's land between them. There's no response, but he feels Corvo briefly channel energy into his hand before deciding against it.

Vaarûn is the one who summons the Void. Literally. His Mark flashes under the glove and he balls his fist and thrusts it upward, and as he does the center of their enclosing spiral spasms with flashing grey and white, then  _ erupts _  with black, tall obsidian shards born out of the Void itself spearing into the air and cutting off their line of sight in a Stygian Burst.

He doesn't wait, he launches forward and Flies up and over the chunks of voidrite and straight at Corvo. Their swords clash and again Corvo tries to lock them together, but Vaarûn is already rising higher, flipping briefly upside down to land on his feet. The obsidian crumbles to nothing behind Corvo as he lunges again and Vaarûn deflects, and again, and again, and it's like Corvo is suddenly giving him to room to breathe, every slash is vicious and quickly followed by another. Vaarûn is forced backward step by step, Corvo even Blinks from side to side to corral him further, his reflexes are faster but Corvo is  _ relentless _ . The wall starts to draw dangerously close at his back and he once again Dissolves to dart away.

Only he doesn't get far. Even after tripping Corvo, the man pulls off his plan. He has a grenade in his fist he apparently took from his belt while forcing Vaarûn backward and now, mid-stumble from the smoke yanking at his heels, he lets the canister roll across the floor behind him. It parts the smoke that is Vaarûn's form and he tries to slip away as fast as he can, but it's not enough.

The grenade goes off.

The hyperbaric shockwave jolts his whole being in an indescribably awful way and forces him to reform, he can't keep himself from drifting apart otherwise. It's a horrible sensation, utterly disorienting, the rare instances when he's forced to reform and he stumbles, trying desperately to find his footing, to find  _ Corvo _  most of all, but it's Corvo who finds him first. He feels a hand grab the front of his shirt and start to spin him around with all the difficulty of moving a toddler and he Dissolves again instinctively, but suddenly his thoughts are nothing but agony.

He gets forcibly kicked out of his misty form a second time. There's no energy left in him to sustain his powers. He can barely open his eyes through the throbbing pain in his skull.

When he stumbles his back hits the wall and, for the briefest moment, when the blade pierces his skin, all he registers is the cold of the steel. Then the pain settles in and jolts his senses back into working order. He wrenches his eyes open.

Corvo is mere inches from him. His sword hand is pinned to the wall, the other is wrapped over Corvo's around the hilt of his blade, the tip of which is sunk into his flesh. It's a shallow stab, about waist height, not close to any major organs, but he can feel the blood seeping up around the steel anyway, no doubt staining his white shirt black in the low light of the courtyard. Corvo's eyes are burning with adrenaline and his smile could almost be called wicked, so close to Vaarûn's face he can feel the man's heavier exhales.

The stab throbs with pain. Every beat of Vaarûn's heart seems to send another wave of aching heat throughout his nerve endings, a heat that is, in fact, not entirely unwelcome. It's actually the dead opposite of unwelcome. Vaarûn's borrowed sword tumbles to the ground, forgotten. His grip around Corvo's sword hilt tightens and he  _ pulls _ .

The blade sinks deeper into his flesh.

The noise that comes out of his throat is equal parts pain and unmistakable  _ pleasure _ .

Their eyes meet. Corvo looks slightly alarmed. That only increases with the words that come from Vaarûn's mouth.

" _ Fuck me _ ."

It's a rushed, breathless whisper.

If this were anyone else, Vaarûn would probably be terrified. He'd hate the blood staining his shirt, soaking into the hem of his pants, painting his pale skin a dark, ugly crimson under the wet fabric. He'd hate the acute, throbbing agony spreading like grasping, scorching tendrils from the sharp metal lodged in his torso, the minute but noticeable spikes of pain whenever the hand holding the blade shifts slightly, intentionally or not. He'd hate being defeated and pinned to the wall, depleted of his magic and of any chance of escape.

But this is Corvo, and there is absolutely  _ nothing _  Corvo can do that Vaarûn wouldn't like.

He twists and wriggles his other hand free, so he can wrap it around Corvo and pull him even closer, which inevitably makes the blade cut into him more and draws another heated moan from his lips. Vaarûn's hand darts up, to tangle through Corvo's hair and pull him down into a kiss, but the other stays firm around Corvo's fingers, around the hilt of his folding knife, keeping the tip buried in the former God's flesh. Corvo hesitates at first, his mouth doesn't move, but he relents and returns the kiss and presses further into the embrace.

It's Corvo's hand that sinks the blade deeper this time and Vaarûn practically  _ melts _  into the kiss. He groans and claws at Corvo's scalp, then grabs at his hair and pulls him away with a gasp. His left hip is hot with his own blood.

"Come on, Corvo, fuck me. Right here." Vaarûn's voice is low and husky, slightly strained from the pain. His free hand catches Corvo's and pushes it down between them, onto his crotch, so the man can feel how hard he is, how much he wants this. "No one will know." He grinds into Corvo's palm. The motion makes the blade move inside his flesh and he gives a pitiful whine. He pulls it deeper still and feels it start to breach to the other side, out through his lower back.

" _ Please _ ."

It must be the raw need in his voice that makes Corvo's breath hitch. He leans down for another kiss, far more ravenous this time, Vaarûn feels teeth catch his lip and tastes blood when it splits under the sharp tug. Corvo presses his palm into Vaarûn's clothed erection and he keens, needily, he tries to grind back and only succeeds in making the blade impaling him shift around in his moving flesh.

Corvo does something to the hilt of his sword and suddenly the blade folds in, but only partially. Its length shrinks down to the bare minimum needed to stay firmly lodged in Vaarûn's body, leaving the hilt flush to his front and the tip still poking out the other side.

"You have to stay quiet," Corvo whispers, voice betraying just how much Vaarûn's begging has affected him.

The other's response is to nod and point at the ground. "Get my coat."

Corvo doesn't move so much as he Blinks away, snatches the garment off the ground, and Blinks back to hold it up for Vaarûn. He reaches in and searches the pockets until he finds what he wants: a little bottle of oil, half-full, and a plain cloth handkerchief that they normally use as a blindfold, but which he now balls up and stuffs into his own mouth as a makeshift gag.

Corvo tosses the coat aside just in time to have the oil shoved into his hands. He holds it secure in his fist while they fumble hurriedly with each other's pants, buttons and zippers coming undone. Vaarûn can't help but slip a hand under the fabric to feel Corvo's length through his underwear. He smiles at the man's controlled grunt. Corvo moves in again, this time wrapping both hands under Vaarûn and lifting him easily off the ground. His torso bends and the sword lodged in it is like a burning fire in his waist, every movement sends another wave of agonizing bliss through his limbs and makes him hiss and moan in equal measure, always muffled by the cloth in his mouth.

Vaarûn's legs automatically wrap around Corvo's midriff as he feels his pants being worked down to expose his rear, but not his own arousal; it stays trapped in his underwear. He braces his legs around Corvo tight, the tension in his torso like added pressure against the cutting edge of the half-folded blade. It's enough that Corvo doesn't have to support his weight and can instead pop the vial of oil open. Vaarûn's body's in the way of his sight, but he feels the movement under him, sees the characteristic shift in Corvo's expression when the man wraps a hand around his own needy length.

Corvo's hands grab his rear again; one slips a little on the oil coating the fingers. Corvo's hips move forward and his arousal slides between Vaarûn's buttcheeks and the former God moans, he squirms and the blade shifts and he moans some more into the makeshift gag. He has to reach down between his legs to help guide Corvo into him, but then the man pushes all the way to the hilt in a single rough thrust and he yelps, clutching at Corvo's arms, every twitch making the abused flesh around the sword throb in delicious agony.

It's a good thing Vaarûn is gagged, because Corvo starts a deep, hard rhythm that's already plenty noisy in and of itself, the occasional quiet smack of skin against skin ringing out into the empty courtyard that is witness to the act. Vaarûn couldn't hope to restrain his noises even if he tried, the sword and the mercilessly rutting combined make him almost scream into the balled-up cloth. Every push into him not only hits all the right spots inside him, it also makes his torso curl tighter, pushes his flesh into the sharp metal embedded in it, sends yet more waves of blissful agony across his body.

One of Corvo's hands moving away from his rear catches his attention amidst the growing haze of endorphins clogging his brain. His whole body is still rocking under the man's powerful rhythm, but he manages to focus and look into Corvo's eyes and finds a question in them, a silent request for permission. He also realizes the sword is moving less, stabilized by Corvo's bloodied hand on the hilt.

Vaarûn doesn't understand what exactly Corvo wants to do, and honestly he doesn't care. He nods his agreement anyway.

Corvo's grip on the sword tightens.

The Spymaster shunts himself as deep as possible inside Vaarûn, and the blade  _ twists _  in the exact same moment.

The former God's mind goes blank. He screams, or at least he thinks he does. There's no room for anything in his head but the pain, the pleasure, the overwhelming blend of the two that's at once the sweetest paradise and the worst torture and vice-versa, and for a few long moments he's lost in that fog, the world reduced to nothing but the literal and metaphorical swords buried in his flesh.

When he starts to come down from the high, Vaarûn realizes he's not being held aloft anymore. The wall is still behind him and Corvo in front, but he's on the ground. Corvo is fussing with something in his hands that Vaarûn doesn't bother to pay attention to. His over-sensitive body is starting to reject the sharp metal that's been lodged in it for the last several minutes. He whines.

Vaarûn is acutely aware of it when the blade shifts slightly. His eyes focus and find Corvo's hand once again around the hilt. The man's hair is still slicked with sweat, clinging to his forehead, but his expression is serious. He has an open vial of elixir in his other hand.

"Stay still."

That's all the warning he gets before the blade is pulled out of him and he groans loud into the gag still in his mouth. The cloth comes out as well, however, and the rim of the elixir vial touches his lips. He drinks obediently. The warmth pools in his stomach and spreads outward like ink in water, soothing his aches as it goes, making the blood congeal inside the wound and the flesh start to knit back together.

Vaarûn will probably have a bad scar even after the elixir's done its work, but he doesn't mind. Corvo makes him drink the entire vial, which is entirely unnecessary, but he doesn't protest.

"Was that too much?" Corvo asks in a low voice, full of concern.

The former God lifts a hand to cradle the Spymaster's jaw. "It was perfect, my dearest."

The laugh of disbelief worms its way out of Corvo before he can stop it. "You're insane. We could've been caught. You could've bled to death."

Vaarûn just smiles. "And yet I heard not a word of protest earlier."

Corvo shakes his head with a smile. "You're a bad influence."

They start to collect their things. Both the empty elixir vial, the little bottle of oil, and the spit-soaked cloth go back into Vaarûn's discarded coat, which he takes and drapes over his arm. Corvo folds up his blade fully, puts it away, and helps Vaarûn up. He checks under Vaarûn's bloodied shirt one last time, to make absolutely sure the wound is healed, then hefts the former God into his arms in a bridal carry. A few Blinks later and they're in Vaarûn's private chambers.

The walls are blue, the furniture dark. A large painting of a whale swimming underwater takes up a good portion of the wall above the double-wide bed lined with black sheets. The decorations follow the same pattern, seashells and stuffed and dried sea creatures and little leviathans carved out of all manner of materials, from blood amber to black stone to actual whale bone. The adjacent bathroom is all dark as well, black tiles and black granite and black porcelain, only broken by the occasional piece of silver-like metal on the faucets and such.

Vaarûn sheds his Void-woven Garb and hangs each piece from a hook on the wall, to give them room to clean and repair themselves over night. It leaves him naked when both he and Corvo head into the bathroom. The Spymaster washes the blood from his hands and sword while the former God gives himself a quick rinse under the shower head.

He towels off and catches Corvo in a hug before the man can leave the bathroom. They share a kiss, with Corvo still fully clothed and Vaarûn fully naked. He feels Corvo's rough hand touch the fresh, pink-flushed scar on his side and combs a soothing hand through the man's hair.

"Corvo, my dearest. Don't worry. I know you tend to linger on these things when they happen, but I've told you time and time again that I enjoy them. I really do. We don't do this often because I like to keep it special, you know that. And I know you have a certain measure of bloodthirst you need to let out sometimes too, so why should you worry? You enjoy it. I  _ certainly _  enjoy it. We are both fully cognizant, consenting adults. Nothing about this should make you feel bad."

A weary sigh drains out of Corvo. He touches the scar again, but then wraps his arms around Vaarûn and kisses him, seeking the reassurance the former God is happy to provide. They stay together for a while longer before Corvo releases him fully.

When they part, Corvo's hand lingers on Vaarûn's jaw.

"Good night, Vaarûn."

"Good night, my dearest Corvo."

Corvo pulls his hand back and Blinks away.


End file.
